


Messy Desks, Soup Crackers, and Loose Ends

by jazzypizzaz



Category: Columbo
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Greenhouse Jungle, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzypizzaz/pseuds/jazzypizzaz
Summary: Something about Columbo niggles at the back of Wilson's mind, like there's one more mystery to solve.  Set at the police department office after they've cracked the case in The Greenhouse Jungle.





	

“Hey, a coupla the boys are going to Manny’s down the road for a few drinks.  Would you like to join, kid?”  One of the more experienced detectives, dressed in a respectable pressed brown suit, stops Sergeant Wilson as he’s cleaning off his brand new desk for the night.  The detective -- a lieutenant probably -- gestures with the cigarette in his hand to the mentioned group congregating at the coatrack by the exit door to the police office.

 

“Oh, the bar on the corner?  Oh well I don’t usually--”

 

“Cmon, you’ve been stuck on that case all week, gotta let loose now that you cracked it.  I’ll buy you a pint, to celebrate.”

 

“Well it was Columbo actually, sir, that found the bullet -- I’ll tell you all about it another time -- and oh!  Is Columbo going?”  Wilson stutters over trying to correct the detective -- was it Johnson? Lieutenant Johnson -- while simultaneously finding a way to slip out of the invitation.  It’s valuable to network with colleagues, sure, but Wilson has the new issue of the _Berkley Tech!_ at home that he’s been itching to browse for reviews of the latest developments in police equipment all week.  After the way their case wrapped up, however, Wilson has the unsettling realization that perhaps there are tools his schooling and studying haven’t been able to teach him.  If he could pick Columbo’s brain over a couple of pints, then maybe he’d be able to tie up more than one loose end...

 

“Columbo?”  Johnson says taken aback, forehead creased as if he couldn’t quite place who Wilson is talking about.  Wilson nods towards Columbo at the back desk, where the rumpled detective is hunched behind a precarious stack of scattered papers, chewing on his cigar and squinting at a report in front of him.  “Oh, him.  Nah he doesn’t really go in for that sorta thing.  Strange fellow, that one,” he adds with a subtle distaste.

 

“The captain said he was a legend.  Always catches his man.  I saw his record, last ten cases in a row, solved in less than a fortnight each,” Wilson rambles, mentally flipping through the case files he had studied in preparation not to embarrass himself in front of the Lieutenant as he shadowed him this week.  

 

Columbo, face furrowed, accidentally upends one pile of looseleafs onto the floor when he tries to pull out a packet from the bottom, and the papers scatter across the back of the office, fluttering wildly as Columbo flaps after them.  Wilson winces.

 

“Two weeks a pop, hmph?"

 

"Or less!"

 

 "If you say so.  I suppose he manages to bumble his way through his work one way or another.  But we don’t usually -- he’s not really someone you invite out, if ya catch my drift.  Well, anyway we’re gonna head out, but feel free to stop by if you change your mind.”  Johnson gives a friendly salute to Wilson before heading out with the others.

 

Now the office is empty, except for an ambivalent Wilson and the paper-laden Columbo, as the streetlights outside flash on in the evening dusk.

 

“Here-- here let help you.”  Wilson, making a decision, strides across the room to assist Columbo in gathering the papers strewn everywhere.  He bends down onto his hands and knees to crawl after a few that had settled far under a nearby desk.

 

“Oh gee, thanks for that.  Thanks so much.  I can’t seem to help it -- one minute I have the report I need right in my hand.  And then I look away for a second, and it’s gone!  Does that ever happen to you?”  Columbo says amiably as he piles some papers in a haphazard fashion under a large rock serving as a paperweight on his desk.  He bustles over to grip Wilson’s elbow, helping him stand up from where he’s crouched.   

 

Wilson stares blankly at Columbo's expectant face, friendly smile curling around the cigar in his mouth, hand still on Wilson’s elbow.

 

“N-no,” Wilson says, caught off guard.

 

Columbo cocks his head then chuckles.  “Well I suppose not, I suppose not.  You’ve probably got some whole system for that sorta thing don’t you?”  Wilson is still staring, at Columbo’s lopsided eyes glinting at him, and some untold mystery that surely hides within them niggles at the back of Wilson’s mind.  

 

Columbo places his hand on Wilson’s for a second. Wilson tenses and breaks eye contact, then Columbo takes the batch of crumpled reports from Wilson’s grip.

 

“Y-yes sir, I have a coding system, and a careful filing scheme.  A well-ordered workspace begets a well-ordered life, can’t be effective without an organizational structure.”  Wilson says, then flushes as he scans over Columbo’s desk.  The few empty patches not covered in detritus -- old newspapers, a couple of hats, what looks like an apple core or two -- have a coat of dust on them.

 

Columbo squints at him in confusion for a second then follows his eyeline.  “Oh gee,” he says sheepishly.  He makes a vain attempt to straighten a stack of stuffed folders, but it threatens to topple again, so he gives up.  “To be honest I don’t spend a whole lotta time at the office…  Mostly out and about, ya know?  But paperwork comes with the job, unfortunately.  Just one of those things.  Not sure how all this stuff got here…. I suppose I should clear it off one day, just dump it all in a basket, a new beginning.  Whaddaya think? ”  Columbo gestures around as he talks, peeking under one of the hats to find a cellophane wrapper of crackers that he squints at as if it trying to solve secrets within, then turns to Wilson for his answer.

 

“Oh, certainly sir.  Whatever works for you.”

 

“Would ya like some?”  Columbo holds out the crackers.

 

Wilson just tilts his head.

 

“Oyster crackers, they're called.  Not made of oysters though, don't make that mistake, but they're good.  Well, I haven’t actually eaten them, as you can see, but I got them from this little diner around the corner that I go to for lunch sometimes -- Luann’s, you ever go there?  It’s real nice, the waitresses, so kind they always know just how I like my coffee, black with nothin’ in it...”  Columbo trails off squinting up at Wilson.

 

“Uh, no,” Wilson says, thinking maybe Columbo was waiting for his reply.  “I haven’t been there, I mostly pack sandwiches for lunch.  More efficient, and cheaper.  But, I’ll, I’ll take note.”

 

“Oh sandwiches, that’s nice, that’s real nice.  I should talk to my wife about that…” Columbo glances down at the crackers in his outstretched hand.  “Now what was I saying?”

 

“You were… offering me a snack, I think.  But, uh, no thank you.”

 

“Ah.  Right, well I order the chili, and they always _always_ give me a packet of these, but who wants that in their soup?  I mean the whole point is that they crunch, but if you put them in a bowl, you know a bowl of beans and beef and tomatahs, they just get soggy, the crackers I mean.  You catch my drift?  Now does that make sense to you?  I don’t get it.”

 

“Well, uh I never really thought about it sir,” Wilson says.  “I don’t often eat soups.”  

 

Columbo shakes the bag of crackers towards him, so Wilson pockets them anyway with a polite nod of thanks.  Columbo smiles.

 

“Yes yes, well I keep the crackers even though, because ya never know if they might come in handy.” Columbo nods, glancing around.  “Oh hey, Freddie -- you don’t mind if I call ya Freddie do ya?” he says with an earnest look.

 

“No I don’t mind, that is my name.”  

 

“Well Freddie, I suppose I’m keeping you late from your dinner, more sandwiches I expect, with all this talk about food… but I just wanted to say, thanks for all your help with this case.  You and all those whats-its, those gadgets.  I was skeptical, but it was a real help in the end, so my gratitude to ya.”

 

Wilson glances down to where Columbo has gripped his upper arm after a few good-natured pats.  Columbo lets go abruptly, spreading his fingers wide as if in apology, smiling pleasantly the whole time.  

 

“You’re quite welcome,” Wilson says. “It was my pleasure to have the honor of working alongside you, and you didn’t disappoint, no siree, a legend just like the Captain said.”  The words tumble out, unbeckoned, but Wilson can’t help himself with the praise.  He’s never met anyone like Columbo -- certainly not other police detectives -- and something about that bothers him, an unravelled end he’s itching to tie up.

 

“Well,” Columbo says with modesty, waving his hand about as if dismissing the thought.

 

“I certainly hope this isn’t the last time, that we work together.  I-- I might meet a couple of the boys down at Manny’s, would you like to join us?”

 

“Oh!” Columbo jerks his head back with a bit of surprise, blinking up at him, one hand rubbing his temple absently. “Gee that’s mighty kind of you.  No, well, no I promised my wife I’d be home for some pot roast.  You’re a bachelor -- that’s what you said right? -- so you’ll understand one day. But that’s nice of you, inviting me like that, I appreciate it.  Another time maybe.”

 

Wilson nods, deflating slightly, although it had only been a passing inclination anyway.  Columbo’s eyes twinkle up at him, mouth curled as if it held a secret, a secret he’s waiting for Wilson to discover.

 

Then, a light flashing in his mind like a camera bulb, Wilson glances back and forth -- connecting all the clues that had been laid out here in front of him: the desk full of trash but devoid of personal mementos, the wrinkled clothing, the lunches out.  Columbo’s clues from their time together: the casual touches, the perplexing looks, and, most notably, his bare hands.

 

“You don’t wear a ring,” Wilson says.

 

“Hmm?” Columbo squints at him, then glances down to his hands.  “Oh!  Well, you recall I was digging through the dirt earlier, for that third bullet.  I coulda slipped it off then, probably it’s in my pocket for safekeeping.”  

 

“You could have,” Wilson says.  

 

They stare at each other a moment -- a tense moment of possibility, like the denouement of a case right before the perp is cornered into confessing  Where all the puzzle pieces have slipped together, and now it’s a simple matter of pointing out what picture the pieces makes, altogether.

 

Columbo makes a cursory show of patting down his pockets before shrugging and smiling innocently at Wilson.  

 

Wilson says, “I think I’ll go home now, have a quiet night in.”

 

“Sure, sure.  Do what you need to do, Freddie,” Columbo says, maddeningly amiable, all too willing to let Wilson go about his business, and Wilson wonders if he jumped to the wrong conclusion.

 

“Alright then.  Good night.”  Wilson backs out slowly towards the exit door to the office, watching Columbo standing hunched there.  Columbo waves then turns to hunt through a drawer of his desk, and Wilson, thinking the moment passed, turns his back.  Ah well.  Who knows what awaits him in the _Berkley Tech!_ tonight.  New binoculars that can peek into opaque minds, perhaps.

 

“Oh, Freddie, Freddie wait a minute!  Humor me with one thing, and then I'll let ya leave, promise,” Columbo calls just as Wilson passes through the door frame, flopping towards him.

 

“Yes?  Yes Lieutenant?” Wilson says quickly, perking up.

 

“Here, here I’ll walk with you.”  Columbo places a hand at the small of Wilson’s back, and Wilson is too distracted to pay attention to anything else until Columbo guides him into dark enclosed space, the faint sharp ting of cleaning solution in the air, and closes the door.

 

“This… this is a closet,” Wilson says.  

 

Columbo tries to step back, but butts up against a shelf, almost upending a bottle of cleaner, glancing around in dim surprise as he hastily leans in towards Wilson, so that they’re almost pressed against each other now.  “Oh!  Gee, I suppose it is. Sorry about that.”  He rubs the side of his head as he peers at the mop in the corner, then turns back to look up at Wilson.  A crooked grin cracks his face.  Columbo is close to Wilson in the small space, so close, and he smells musty, like smoke and mildew.  “You don’t mind, do ya?”

 

Wilson quirks an eyebrow in confusion, but before he can ask what he doesn’t mind, Columbo closes the gap between them, stretching up on the balls of his feet as he reaches to meet his chapped lips to Wilson’s.  Wilson makes a surprised but satisfied noise, then fists his hands in the lapels of Columbo's khaki jacket, pulling the shape of the man's body flush against him.

 

Columbo tastes of stale cigar ash, burnt coffee, and one less mystery to solve, and Wilson enjoys the satisfaction of a closed case.


End file.
